Dragons With Cancer

I stood on the beach, touched by hot garbage. I was done being smegmatic on a series of answering machines. My hair broke off like an antique bra. The water stung my waist. I began to smell like anyone's saint.

I hid all my snot in a coloring book. I left the baby's enema in full swing. Bird vulva porched my head. I did not finish eating the noodles because they lied. I had one photograph of AIDS in my pocket.

I waded the prickling lift of green until my jaw sank. My skin stewed several feet out. Whistling through skulls, the tide petted its white magnet and left through me like a misting cuticle stirred repeatedly nowhere by bamboo fans.

A fish punched right into my wig, carrying it to the net, into the fisherman's hands, who wore it with so much obscene pride his wife came back to him the next day, but he beat her regardless, because the way she held him now seemed suspiciously familiar to someone that far alone.

His wife: "I spend my birthdays in a graveyard. I am trying to break my hymen against the statue of a communist. I watch him like a stain growing inside my stomach. We share a joint. We pass one inhalation back and forth in long kisses and exhale into the corpse dirt above each grave. My thoughts sound like a popping mango. I expect to be raped in a shallow grave, filled with granite, a lick of something molded dry inside my thought. My top has been lost in previous melee and I extinguish the hot end of a cigarette on my nipple, uttering a stepped-on purr we both enjoy, leaving a white scar dividing the pink like a second nipple, failing to begin, I still flick in certain baths. My poorly applied makeup improves by running. Strawberry panties fill my asshole. In a minute, he dampens us both. My tits scraped full of holes. He huddles in his crucified clays, retarded as any hero, longing after me, staring cow-eyed, fat under his mom-clipped hair. How we argue. I draft a divorce with my tongue. The statue and his friends track me down like a gang rape magnet's festive in my uterine area. I bleed for a week. I fill up a small closet. Red paint chips under my eyes. They step on my fallopian tubes and mace the boy I'm with far up his body until his whole checkbook becomes a rash."